


Give Your Heart To Somebody

by lovely_rita



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Break Up, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Depression, F/M, I love soulmate au's so much, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Non-Explicit Sex, also John and Paul are cute babies, lots of swearing, sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_rita/pseuds/lovely_rita
Summary: “You only find out your soulmate after they’ve left your life, Paul. You only find out if you’ve lost them.”“They die?” he had asked, pulling away to look at her face with wide eyes.“Not always. It could just mean you’re never going to see them again."
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 60





	Give Your Heart To Somebody

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is written in celebration of reaching 100+ followers on my Tumblr blog!! I can't thank you guys enough for supporting me and encouraging new fics.  
> Anyway, I've had my heart set on writing a soulmate AU fic for some time, and so I'm very pleased to be finally posting this :)  
> The title is from the song Ram On by the lovely Paul McCartney ;)  
> Please read the tags before you continue, I don't want anybody getting triggered by anything mentioned in this fic!  
> I love you all and hope you enjoy!  
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

****1949** **

“Y’know you ought to be more polite, Paul.”

Paul pouts, and his mother bends down, pushing his fringe from his eyes gently, her voice scolding but her eyes soft.

“You’re not going to find your soulmate with a mouth like that.”

He had first learnt about soulmates when his Uncle passed away, and he found his mother crying on the phone. She had sat him down and told him that his Uncle was his Aunt’s soulmate. As a child, he couldn’t understand why you couldn’t find out your soulmate straight away. His mother had smiled and let him crawl into her lap, wrapping his little arms around her and pushing his face into her neck in a hug.

“You only find out your soulmate after they’ve left your life, Paul. You only find out if you’ve lost them.”

“They die?” he had asked, pulling away to look at her face with wide eyes.

“Not always. It could just mean you’re never going to see them again,” she says, and he nods at her before tucking his face back against her chest.

So now, at the age of eight, he doesn’t understand why his mother would be so worried about him meeting his soulmate on an odd Sunday on his way to church. He won’t know that it's them anyway, so he doesn’t see why he should even have one.

\--

****1956** **

Paul’s mother dies when he’s fourteen.

He hasn’t seen her in weeks because the hospital only allows one visitor, which would always be his father, much to Paul’s annoyance because he’s fourteen and clearly nearly an adult, so he doesn’t understand why can’t he visit his mother. His father says it’s for the best. That she doesn’t look the same anymore, and he’d rather he and his brother keep the memory of her looking somewhat healthy.

It’s the middle of the night when he hears crying, and he knows immediately it’s not Mike because it’s deep and unfamiliar. He pads out of his room in bare feet, careful not to be too loud, and he finds his father hunched over the armchair in the living room. Paul hadn’t heard the phone, and he hadn’t heard anyone talking, so he wonders why his da could be crying, especially as the man is usually very collected, always passing around the motto of ‘ _don’t show your feelings_ ’ like a tin of sweets.

Paul quietly moves over to the chair next to him, and his father snaps his head up, quietly wiping away the tears glistening his cheeks.

“What’s happened?” Paul asks, and he expects his father to usher him to bed with an apology for waking him, but instead, he watches as his da’s face crumbles. His father rolls up his left sleeve, holding out his wrist under the dim lighting.

_Take care of the boys Jim_.

Paul spends the rest of the night crying against his da’s chest.

\--

****1957** **

When he’s fifteen, his friend Ivan drags him to the village fete, tells him there’s an opening in a band. Paul doesn’t feel like doing much these days, but he agrees and slings his guitar over his shoulder before trekking over to Woolton, regretting not asking his friend George to go because it seems more his thing.

It’s hot, but Paul doesn’t take off his leather jacket. He thinks it makes him look like a ted, one of those boys that have a barney with guys that look the wrong way and smoke a pack of ciggies by the wall at the docks. He can practically hear his mother’s voice chiding him for not looking neat enough, but he can’t find it in himself to care when he knows this look _works_. He’s got himself a girlfriend and a few friends, and all of them gel their hair and carry a comb that’s almost as popular as a hidden pack of condoms. Most of his friends have already turned sixteen, but the way he dresses makes him feel like there’s no age gap.

He finds Ivan in the crowd. A skiffle band is playing, and Paul can’t help but let his eyes linger for a second too long on the lead singer. He stops himself though because it would be okay if the singer was a girl. But no, the singer is a man. And quite frankly, Paul’s thoughts have been deemed long ago by the law that they’re illegal. _Wrong_. He blinks and shuffles around with Ivan until they’re in the church, and Paul can hear the applause from outside. He doesn’t even have the chance to ask what’s going on until the band are in the room putting their instruments away.

The lead singer stops to look at him, and Paul hears Ivan clear his throat.

“This is Paul. He wants to try out for the band.”

The singer’s eyes light up slightly, and a smirk plays on his lips that would be intimidating if Paul didn’t have confidence in his guitar playing.

“Let's hear ya then, son.”

Paul plays his guitar, ignoring the looks for playing it the wrong way around, and launches himself into ‘Twenty Flight Rock’ like there’s no tomorrow. There’s a thin crease in the other man’s head when Paul finishes, and he thinks he must have done something wrong, only the man holds his hand out, his eyes flicking sincerely.

“I’m John.”

\--

He thinks for a while maybe it’s George, the guy that’s become his best friend after fucking around on the school bus like the teds Paul thinks they are. His mother had always gushed over how ‘ _you’re always drawn to your soulmate like magnets_ ’, and he wonders whether that‘s why George is always around him.

But he’s not attracted to George in that way, and it seems neither is George, so Paul decides quite early on it’s not him.

\--

****1958** **

****

Paul visits John constantly, insistent on being his little side-kick if it means he can follow him around the docks like a lost puppy. He’s unsure of what it means when John just _lets_ him, not even batting an eyelid, but it becomes obvious quite quickly that John’s bad-boy reputation betrays him. He’s kind in a way Paul’s not quite accustomed to, and he leads Paul along into his own life by a stringed heart.

It’s the fifth time Paul’s been to John’s house when the older man finally confronts him, and Paul at first doesn’t know what to do. He wants to say something, but it only ends with his lips pressed against John’s. He tries to pull away, realising his mistake almost immediately, but there’s a hand on his chin forcing him forwards against awaiting lips, and he can’t help but let himself fall apart.

\--

****1960** **

****

When he finds out Dot’s pregnant, he doesn’t tell John first. He tells his da that, although shoots a stern look because he’s only eighteen, tells him he’s got to marry her. That it’s the right thing to do. Paul nods along and feigns a smile, letting his father drill into him the elements of a gentleman, and yet he can’t find it in himself to want to go through with it. He should, because it’ll give the baby a family and he’ll be able to support Dot, but it will also mean he can’t spend half as much time as he spends now with John and that slices through him in a way that no words could ever do. Because he’s going to be a father, and not only is he still a child himself, but it means he can’t carry on with John. That whatever they have going on needs to be forgotten and they need to move on.

When his father finishes, Paul excuses himself and bikes over to John’s, dragging him out of the house before Mimi can scold him for muddy shoes on the carpet. It’s dark by now, and they stop outside the wall on Penny lane. There’s a streetlamp across the street, and it emits enough light for Paul to be able to see his cigarette pack, fumbling two ciggies out, before lighting them and handing one to John.

“What’s up?”

Paul exhales, letting the smoke dwindle into the air and he rests his back against the wall.

“Dot’s pregnant.”

He feels John’s arm next to him, brushing his hand as he blows out the smoke.

“An’ I suppose yer gonna marry her then,” John says. Paul can feel his eyes on him, but he can’t meet his gaze without feeling utterly ashamed.

“Yeah, s’pose I have to.” Paul’s hands tremble slightly, and he keeps the ciggy in his mouth as he wipes his hands on his jacket.

“It’s the right thing y’know,” John says, and Paul’s so surprised he almost chokes on the smoke that clings to his throat. He looks over at John now, and even in the dark, he can see the earnest in his eyes.

“S’pose you’d do the same for Cyn then?”

John takes one last puff before stubbing the ciggy out on the floor.

“Sure. It’s the right thing,” he says, and Paul so desperately just wants to pull him into a hug because he doesn’t want to do this alone. But he doesn’t and instead lets John discreetly take his hand between their bodies.

“I’ll still be here y’know,” John says, squeezing Paul’s hand a little, and Paul finally breaks into a smile, watching as John mirrors his expression.

He decides he’ll keep John for a little while longer.

\--

The band quickly disbands into just the five of them, now that George has joined, and they head off to Hamburg like it’s the answer to their dreams. It is, and it isn’t, Paul decides, because whilst they do four gigs a night and get paid by the hour, they have to live in a shithole they call the Bambi Kino, and on top of all of that, _Stuart_ is there too.

John and Paul haven’t discussed anything about whatever they’re doing and decide to keep it that way, not wanting to admit ‘ _feelings’_ or whatever in case it becomes too complicated. Though Paul quickly finds out the only problem with not communicating is that John has no clue how he feels. Hence, why John prances around with Stuart like he’s the fucking Queen instead of hanging back with Paul like he usually does. Paul tries to take it in his stride, tending to hang out more with George and Pete, but he can’t help but let jealousy simmer in his bones like John’s paramour, because he can’t help but have a sneaking suspicion that he’s not the only one John’s having a relationship with, excluding the girls. Paul fucks a few birds to get his mind off things, and yet nothing seems to even compare just a little to what he has with John.

He keeps his distance for a while, letting the separation sting at his skin until John comes crawling back to the room one day. _Alone_. Paul would be damned if he took him back, but he does, and John fucks the life out of him on the dingy cinema mattress, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

“It’s only you, Paul,” he says after, his chest still heaving and eyes glazed with a post-coital lustre, but Paul doesn’t say anything. He can’t when he knows that what they’re doing is so wrong and yet he can’t ever seem to get enough. And he doesn’t want to reinforce whatever _this_ is with words he can’t take back. John stirs, turning onto his side to look at Paul, earnest lingering in his expression that makes Paul stare, fearing that he’ll blink and it’ll be gone.

“I mean it, Macca,” John says, and he touches Paul’s chest tentatively, fingers gliding over pale, sweat-slicked skin as he awaits an answer with fluttering anxiety.

“I know,” Paul says, and John wets his lips with a hesitant nod.

\--

Dot miscarries, and the first thing he does is comfort her.

And then he dumps her.

He breaks up with her, telling her he’s not ready for marriage and all that crap and she throws the ring back at him. He can still hear her sobs when he leaves, and he decides to hang around the docks instead of going home, trying to stave off seeing his father’s disappointment. He goes through three ciggies before his eyes catch a familiar face. He stubs his cigarette out and moves over to the other side of the wall.

“Why are ya here?”

John squints at him and blows out the smoke from his ciggy. John doesn’t usually come here alone, especially if it’s the middle of the day, so seeing him here confuses Paul slightly.

“Dunno. Felt like it, I guess.”

Paul nods, scuffing his feet against the specks of dirt on the cobbles, and John stuffs a ciggy in his hand with a smile.

“Looks like ya need one,” John says, a quirk of a smile on his lips as he lets Paul light the cigarette from the end of his own.

“Why are you here then?” John asks, and Paul blows the smoke out shakily. He doesn’t want to tell him. He’s ashamed already, and he doesn’t particularly want to know John’s opinion, especially when he’d never been a fan of their relationship anyway. Hell, on his and Dot’s first date, John tagged along too, and Paul knew it wasn’t just for the sake of it. It was to state claim over him, assert his dominance in the only way he knows best. Letting his presence be known so the others know where they stand. Only, it didn’t work with Dot, and she continued on with the date like there wasn’t anything odd about John sulking in the corner of the booth as they made conversation. So Paul had known from the get-go that John didn’t like her, but to his credit, he never pulled another stunt like that again.

“Dots miscarried,” he says, letting the words throw against the air abruptly causing a harsh intake from John.

“Oh.”

“And I broke up with her.”

John frowns and flicks away the ash from the end of his ciggy. “Why the hell would ya do that?”

Paul frowns, eyes flicking over John’s figure in search of what the older man’s reaction is because Paul was sure as hell it was going to be relief. Instead, he sees incredulity painted on John’s face, and it only serves to confuse Paul more.

“I thought you’d be happy. Ya never liked us together.”

John sighs and jerks his ciggy to the floor, running a hand over his face in, what seems like frustration.

“Yeah but… ya can’t jus’ go an’ break up with her after something like that happens.”

There it is, the confirmation that Paul has an unpleasant side to himself he never likes to admit to. Because he knows it only serves the purpose to hurt, like he’s done with Dot.

Paul doesn’t reply, lets his lips suck around the end of his cigarette before he straightens, adjusting his coat slightly.

“ ‘M going’” he says, spat onto the street like he’s declaring war, and walks away. He’s stopped by a hand on his arm, and he turns slightly to look at John, eyes meeting slightly.

“Come round mine tomorrow, yeah?”

There’s validation in his voice, and it means they’re okay. Paul’s mouth twitches, and he nods. John’s hand lingers on him for a second too long before he lets go, and Paul walks back home as the sky turns dark.

\--

****1962** **

Pete’s replaced, the first order from their manager, Brian, a few days before they start working on their debut, and he’s replaced with Ringo. He was the drummer for another group, but he’s nice and a marginally better drummer than Pete. Although, when they go to record the singles, the producer doesn’t trust him with anything but a tambourine.

Paul’s got both of his songs as the singles, though John contributed to them, and they finish recording them in a space of a few hours.

The studio is hot, especially for a common day in September, and they shrug off their jackets as they huddle around the mic. He and John are standing opposite, mouths almost touching the mic, and Paul has to try and not look John in the eyes because doing so consequently makes the guitarist pull a face that will evidently make Paul laugh, and therefore ruin the track.

They’re doing great, cranking out song after song, and it’s only when they get to the last few songs on the album that John’s voice starts to give in. Surprisingly though, it makes the song sound better, and Paul can’t help but think the rasp of John’s voice makes him _sexier_.

He mentions it later when they’re in bed after a few rounds, and John’s curled into his side.

“Really? Thought I sounded like a strangled cat,” John says, mushing his face against Paul’s hip. Paul would laugh, but it seems as though he can’t when John looks so peaceful, nestled against him with pink stained cheeks and his reddish hair glinting slightly in the artificial light. It’s unusual to see John so calm, the tension leaving his muscles, letting him relax like silk against Paul’s body, and Paul’s grateful to have that kind of influence over him that he becomes just John. Not Beatle John or Cynthia’s John or even Public John. He’s just _John_. His Johnny, made up of soft lines and tender touches hidden in a personality so uniquely him that Paul’s almost possessive over this side of his best friend. Because there’s no one else in the world that can see him this way.

He tangles a hand in John’s hair, earning a satisfied hum, and lets his eyes wander over John’s face when John shifts slightly to face him.

“No. Definitely sexy,” Paul says, smirking a little as John’s eyebrows raise.

“Yer such a horny bugger y’know,” John says, and Paul laughs, moving the hand in John’s hair down to his neck when the older man crawls over to kiss him.

\--

The night the album hits the charts with Love Me Do landing at number seventeen, John pulls Paul back to his house before the celebration party. The sun is low, and it settles in an amber shade as they stumble into the house, Paul clinging to John’s back to laugh into his coat.

“You’ve not even had a bevvy yet,” John says, but Paul can’t stop laughing until John pushes their lips together. Paul kisses back, moulding their lips together. It’s only when he feels John’s tongue wetting his bottom lips does the seal break, and a laugh muffles between them until John pulls back. Paul’s still shaking, concealing his laugh by resting his head against John’s chest, and John sighs dramatically.

“Yer off yer rocker, son,” John says, and Paul heaves a last breath before abruptly wrapping his arms around John’s waist, pulling the older man forwards in order to bury his face against his neck. John’s arms come up to sit in the dip of his waist, and Paul smiles against his skin.

“What exactly are ya laughin’ about?” John asks, but Paul just shakes his head, causing John to shrug him away slightly to look at his face.

“If I tell ya, you’ll think I’ve gone barmy,” Paul replies, and John’s arms brush up to pull them closer again, chest to chest. Sharing breaths as they’re forced to look each other in the eye, and John has that smirk on his face that’s all too familiar.

“S’nothing new.”

“Git.”

A laugh bubbles between them, and John slides his hands over Paul’s arms, grabbing his attention back.

“Tell me.”

Paul sighs, letting John’s fingers run over the fine hairs of his arms, and he concentrates on it for a second to calm himself.

“S’just, everyone’s always told us that we’re never going to make it. We won’t make a band. We won’t make an album, and if we did it would never reach the charts.”

Paul pauses and flicks his eyes up to John’s, wetting his lips slightly.

“An’ we have. Proved them wrong, didn’t we?”

John’s breath ghosts Paul’s lips and he nods, moving his hands around John’s neck to sit them on his face, thumbing lightly at his jawline.

“We’ve done it, Johnny.”

John laughs now, and Paul’s glad he has someone to laugh along with. They laugh themselves silly until their out of breath, and then when they’re finished they find themselves huddled against each other, relishing in the comfort of one another as the sky darkens and the street lamps shimmer through the windows.

“I think we better start gettin’ ready or Eppy will kill us.”

They’re sat in the living room now, on the floor, with John’s back pressed against the sofa and Paul between his legs. Paul hums, letting John’s hand stroke it’s way through his hair until he leans back slightly and kisses his neck.

“Come ‘ead then.”

\--

****1964** **

America is a lot bigger than Paul thought it would be. Though, the only parts he gets to see is out car and hotel windows as they plough their way from state to state.

It’s unnerving, knowing there are so many more fans here than in England, and the concerts are twice the size and they have to use so much more equipment. But he guesses it has its upsides.

Like the fact he gets to share a hotel room with John every night.

The first night they’re staying in New York, and they’re dragging their feet by the time they get into their room. Paul sits on his bed with a sigh, watching as John falls face-first against his own mattress with a groan. They’re silent for a while as they catch their breath, and Paul’s eyes drift over to John, noticing how the older man has turned his face to look at him.

They look at each other for a few seconds before they strip off their suits and both climb into John’s bed. It’s a bit of a squish, two of them together in a single bed, but John’s wrapped himself around Paul like a damn koala so they manage to get comfortable without the fear of toppling off the sides.

Paul’s sure John’s asleep, but John’s hands start to skim over the expanse of his chest, and his face nuzzles against Paul’s neck.

“Macca?”

“Yeah, Johnny?”

Paul turns his head slightly to look at him, and John’s got a foreign smile pulling at his cheeks.

“We’ve made it, baby.”

\--

“Do you ever think about it?”

Paul passes the joint over to John, who accepts gratefully. They’re lying side by side on John’s bed, high as a kite, with eyes trained on the ceiling like it holds all their secrets.

“Sometimes,” John replies, and Paul turns his head to look at him, taking the joint from John to place it between his lips.

“But I think it’s a load of crap. Surely it would be a lot more helpful if we knew before we leave our soulmates.”

Paul nods, blowing out the smoke, and smiles, handing it back over.

“Positively unfair.”

“Indeed, son.”

Paul rolls over, consequently landing unceremoniously on John’s chest, making the older man move the joint from between his lips as Paul brushes his face against his, meeting him in a kiss. When Paul pulls away, he looks down at John, at the way his eyes, bloodshot and dreamy, stare at his own, and Paul gives a dopey smile, feeling a giggle surface when John taps his nose.

“Sometimes I think it’s you y’know,” Paul says, and John’s face twists, almost unnoticeable, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

“Shouldn’t think like that. You’ll get yer head all mixed up like.”

Paul’s smile drops slightly more into a longing, but he can see in John’s eyes that the older man doesn’t believe himself. Paul parts his lips and lets himself sink, reclining his head against John’s chest so that John’s chin rests in his hair. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling John’s chest expand as he takes another puff of the joint.

“I know,” Paul says, hearing John hum beneath him, and a hand threads messily in his hair.

\--

The boat is swaying underneath them, and Paul waves at the onlookers stood on the streets of Amsterdam. It’s a lovely place, the red light district giving out a lot more adventures than Paul thought, like when John paid a girl for both of them at the same time. Not that Paul had never had a threesome, being a teenager on the Reeperbahn lead to a lot of sex and a lot of discovery, but it was the first time he’d had one with John. It had definitely been an experience, but it ended with them trying to bribe the lady with money and souvenirs to keep her lips shut after they’re spent the majority of the time leaving her out.

Jimmy is nice too, though Paul is starting to really miss Ringo, but the young lad has fit in effortlessly, and Paul’s actually surprised at how he’d been so okay with becoming a Beatle overnight. And he’s also pleased with how he doesn’t comment on how Paul and John tend to be stuck together like glue.

It’s always pleasant going to new places, and the fans seem to love them here just as much as they do back home.

Paul’s nudged slightly, and he turns his head to see what John’s nodding at. There are two girls sat by the riverside practically crying with a sign showing their undying love for the two of them. ‘You’re my soulmate,’ is written across one of the cards, and Paul’s chest stutters slightly, although he knows it’s not very likely that they are.

He expects he’s already met his soulmate by now, and if it turns out it’s not John, then his second choice would be Jane. Lady Jane introduced him to culture and fashion and the defined art of acting like you belong in a world of middle-class gentlemen with enough cash to lie in it, when really he still feels like he belongs back home in Liverpool where he can say and do what he wants without the whole world knowing. He supposes if she’s his soulmate that won’t be too bad, though he’ll still be a little disappointed.

Because there’s only one person he wants it to be.

\--

****1966** **

“Jus’ say yer sorry-“

“Who’s side are ya on, McCartney?”

John’s voice is raised, out of fury or anxiety Paul’s not sure, but the bedroom door is slammed behind him, blocking out the prying ears of the people lurking in the corridors.

“There aren’t any sides in this John. It’s not us that’s messed up. It’s _you_.”

John’s face breaks slightly, but Paul’s too upset to stop. This concert had been the breaking point. A cherry bomb going off had made all four of them fear the deaths of each other, and it had all been caused by John’s stupid statement.

“It wasn’t me or George or Ringo, hell, not even Brian. It was you, John. An’ the only way out of this is if you take it back.”

His chest is heaving and he can feel the tension line his shoulders, but he deflates slightly when John sinks onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at his head with a sigh.

“I didn’t even do anythin’ wrong.”

Paul thins his lips. John looks so utterly miserable, and for the life of him, Paul can’t remember another time where he’d looked so earnest, so depressed. Of course, John will never admit it, but it’s obvious he’s struggling, and Paul doesn’t want to watch him go through it alone.

“Maybe not. But the world all have it out for ya,” Paul says quietly, and John deflates, sighing heavily as his back collides with the bed and he closes his eyes. Paul knows John regrets it. But because John can be so sanctimonious sometimes, an apology is something that Paul’s not expecting to be drawn from his lips. Paul pulls his boots off and crawls up the bed, tucking himself into John’s side, feeling John’s arm circle round to sit on his hip.

“It’ll be okay y’know,” Paul says, and John moves his hand to flatten against Paul’s stomach, pulling him closer.

\--

****1968** **

Going to India turned out to be both a blessing and a mistake.

After spending too long in the studio, the four of them decide to go to Rishikesh in search of peace and answers, as well as a way to find new inspirations for the songs they have to keep churning out. It’s hot and crowded, and they all bring their partners along in hopes it will help settle the rift between them all.

It doesn’t. If anything, it only causes them all to drift further apart.

It’s about halfway through their stay when John corners him, locks the door, consequently locking Jane and Cynthia out before saying “ _I love you_.”

The words sit heavy in the air, and Paul feels like he might just die there and then. He and John had never even referred to themselves as being ‘together’, and neither of them had ever dared go near the ‘L-word’. Until now. And even though it’s everything he’s been waiting for, Paul can’t seem to get a reply to leave his lips. There’s too much unknown. Too many questions. Because if he says it back it’ll be real, which leads to people _finding out_. And they can’t have that when there are too many journalists and photographers who can easily pick up the story and spread it as a headline.

The fear is ultimately what makes Paul seal his lips for a second too long, and he watches as John’s face practically crumbles.

“Whatever,” John says, his voice thick as he turns his back, and Paul shouts a ‘ _wait_ ’ as he stumbles after him. But John is quick to turn, striking Paul in the cheek with unkempt fury. Paul feels the sting against his cheek but says nothing. He guesses he deserved that anyway, and John shaking now, almost like he’s on the brink of a breakdown. Paul lets an apology leave his lips but it’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough.

So he watches as John spits a ‘ _fuck you_ ’ before slamming the door back open, leaving Paul alone.

John leaves a few days later and claims the trip just wasn’t his scene.

\--

He tends to shrug on despondency like a coat these days, opting to just go along with everyone instead of having to deal with them laying into him for having an opinion. It’s fine, he thinks, because ultimately he’ll get his songs to sound the way he wants, and everyone else can slap their songs on the record like they don’t give a damn. Which they probably don’t, because ever since they’ve come back from India, the fallout between John and Paul is enough for them to avoid each other, and George and Ringo are drifting around the studio on either weed, or LSD in George’s case. And though Paul’s had enough, he doesn’t want to give it up. The Beatles is his life, and without it, he’s afraid he’ll become what his father had warned him about. A failure. Because how can he be anything without the Beatles?

\--

****1969** **

He finds Linda and his life has colour for the first time in months. Dear, amazing, lovely Linda, who decidedly plants herself smack bang in the middle of Paul’s life without so much as a complaint. She pushes him out of bed every morning. She motivates him to go to the studio on the days where it seems impossible. She’s there for him when he comes home with open arms, and he always gladly accepts.

She reminds him slightly of John.

He thinks for a while, in particular after their wedding, if maybe she’s the one, but the tingle in his chest and the pumping of his heart doesn’t happen the same way it does when he thinks of John. But it’s too nasty now, nothing left to salvage now that John’s fucked off with Yoko, always pulling her into the studio and letting her sit with them like the band’s fucking lap dog. She’s been pasted to his side since India, and Paul had broken it off with Jane in hopes John would do the same. But Lennon was always the spiteful one, and he continues despite Paul’s pleading looks. Paul guesses he deserves it though. He’d single-handedly finished their relationship, and yet here he is trying to put it back together like nothing happened.

So now, Paul deems whatever they had is over now. And he guesses that hurts more than the band being on the verge of breaking up.

\--

“Macca?”

Paul doesn’t open his eyes, but he can feel the way Linda’s pressing the phone against his ear, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck softly.

“Paul.”

He can hear the voice over the speaker, and it sounds almost like John’s worried. Paul blinks his eyes open but doesn’t reply.

“C’mon Paul. Ya can’t do this. Not to Linda. Or the kids.” _Or me._ Paul can hear the unspoken sentiment, but it does nothing to quell the dark look on his face as his eyes trail up to the window.

He can see the fields outside, the air bright in such a way that he can see the dust particles floating around, and he wonders when Linda opened the curtains. He can hear Heather with Mary outside the door, soft giggles lacing the air with taunting guilt because he realises he hasn’t talked to them in days. Mary had curled up between him and Linda the night before, and he realises he should’ve held her close and shushed her as she cried instead of leaving Linda to comfort by herself.

“Paul.”

John’s voice is insistent down. Paul wets his lips and moves his hand, stiff with remnants of sleep, to place it on top of Linda’s, slipping the phone into his grasp.

“John?”

His voice is raspy, grating at his throat.

“Paul...Jesus, ya need to snap out of this. This isn’t you.”

Linda’s hand has moved down to stroke at his back, light touches skating over his skin as he begins to tremble. With hurt or anger, he’s not sure.

“You can’t let Linda carry ya, Paul.”

Paul breathes deeply and shuts his eyes. If Linda wasn’t next to him, he would’ve told John to come back, that he misses him. But then he guesses John wouldn’t appreciate that anyway what with him leaving him.

“Fuck you, John. Why are ya calling?”

The phone is silent before John answers again, agitated.

“Go to hell, Paul. If ya don’t want my help then that’s fine. Go an’ let yerself rot, see if I care.”

The phone shuts off, and Paul lets it slip out of his hands. He hears Linda set the phone on the table before he opens his eyes. She’s looking at him, eyes trying to figure what he’s going to do. He sighs and sits up, and her hand curves around his arm with silent question. An answer curls his lips but he doesn’t comment, instead moving Linda’s hand to lace with his own.

“What are you doing?” she asks, and he smiles, which he realises is the first genuine one in weeks. 

“I’m going for a shower.”

She smiles, brighter than normal, and brings her free hand to his face, threading her fingers through his beard and thumbing gently at his cheek.

\--

****1970** **

“What the fuck are ya doin’?”

John’s made his presence known before he’s even walked in the room, and Paul flicks his eyes from the whiskey bottle at his feet up to John.

“Did Linda let ya in?”

Paul’s tired. Way too tired to put up with John’s shit, and he lets his elbow rest on the arm of the chair, his hand cupping his cheek. He can feel the bristles scratch at his fingers, showing signs that his beard is coming back, but he’s drifting back to that place again where he doesn’t care. Because the three people he wished would care don’t anymore, and he honestly can’t understand what he’s still doing here if he isn’t in the fucking Beatles. Because that’s all he’s ever known, isn’t it? But without Paul, there’s no Beatles. And without the Beatles, there’s no Paul.

“Why the bloody fuck does that matter? Why have ya gone an’ blabbed to the press? We agreed we’d tell them as a group,” John says, voice too loud and raw and unwarranted for this early in the morning, but Paul doesn’t even lift his head, doesn’t even shift out of his slumped position, curled into the armchair.

 _Ah, so that’s what this is about._ Paul had expected this, just not straight away and not in his own house. His couldn’t deal with pussy-footing around the idea of the band’s split when John had already announced their divorce in the shallow whisperings of managements and studio rooms away from the prying hands of the media. He’d only pushed that information into the awaiting arms. Paul had had enough to put it lightly.

He blinks at John, watching the older man heave with every breath, but it seems as though Paul only ignites the fire and spreads it by staying silent.

“Y’know this isn’t all about you, Paul. We were goin’ to announce it together and be done with it. If you had just bloody listened to Klein-”  
”And do what? Bend over so he can make me sign the bloody papers?”

Paul’s voice is lifeless, deadened as soon as he hits the air. He sounds resigned, finished, and it elicits a strong inhale from John. He notices a hickey under John’s jawline, and it almost surprises him that the pang of jealousy physically jolts him, and he presses his lips in a thin line.

“Y’know what Paul? I’m done.”

And with that, John leaves the room. Paul can hear him stomp back through the house, the high voice of Linda speaking a goodbye as the man leaves.

Paul’s tired.

\--

****1971** **

****

‘How Do You Sleep’ hits the papers, the feud against them now worldwide, and Paul seethes.

According to John, from what Paul had read in the papers, it was a response to one of his own songs. Paul had written in solely with John in mind, but he had been discreet, the words only meaningful to the opposer. And so Paul guesses John must have understood his meaning.

When Linda finds out, she goes mad, especially when it became known that George had played on the track. She claims it isn’t fair, that what they did with their song wasn’t even on the same barbaric level of John’s, but Paul disagrees.

See, Paul had always been the one to hurt with meaningless words, passive aggressiveness at its finest. He’d mastered the art in his youth, and he would only ever use it to hurt. To slice and cut and tear you to shreds. And that’s exactly what he did in the song. And the downfall is that Paul would always use the skill in fights against John, so John is well-accustomed to Paul’s ways of hurting him.

And so John had done everything he could to get back at him, which was to hate on him where everyone around them knew of it. Paul’s very egotistical in that way, and John’s done well in smashing at it in the public eye.

So Paul protests against Linda telling him they should ring John and give him a piece of their mind. Instead, he writes a reply through a song and hopes it will be a good enough answer.

_Dear friend, throw the wine. I'm in love with a friend of mine_.

\--

****1976** **

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in years.

John’s thinner, his hair cropped back to the length the same as back in ‘58 just without the quiff, and he looks down at Paul, squinting through his glasses.

“What are ya doin’ here?”

Paul’s stood at John’s door in the Dakota on a last thought after coming back from an interview, but now standing in front of the man he’s not seen in six years leaves him faltering for a reply.

“Jus’ wanted to see ya s’all. Was in the area, y’know.”

John blinks at him but opens the door further, and Paul walks in almost shyly. The walls are white, scarce of any features, and he lets his eyes examine over the belongings placed neatly in their places. This is not the John Paul knows. At least not the same John that he’d had in the Beatles.

“Yoko’s not ‘ere,” John says, obviously thinking that’s what Paul looking at. Paul hums a reply and accepts a ciggy from John before sitting himself on one of the armchairs.

John sits opposite, smoke billowing from his mouth as he rests his feet on the coffee table, eyebrows raised as his eyes stay trained on Paul.

“How’s Linda?”

Paul’s actually surprised the older man brought her up. He had expressed his dislike for Linda many times between 69’ and 70’, and Paul had guessed it was because if John was to ever change his mind, Paul would no longer be a free man meaning the finality of their relationship had been sealed with Linda. Because though John would be the one to leave Yoko, Paul could never do that to Linda. He loves her, but he suspects John could never know just how in love Paul is with him. There was their problem. Not only what happened in India, but what it had ultimately revealed. That although John loved Paul, he would never love quite as much as Paul loves John.

“She’s okay. So are the kids,” Paul replies, tapping the ash off the end of his ciggy into the ashtray by his arm. John only hums a reply, his hand trailing back up to his mouth.

“Heard ya on the radio again,” John says, smoking filtering out of his mouth with every word.

Paul scoffs a little, leaning back against the chair with an eyebrow raised.

“What did ya think?”  
”Was never into yer granny shit, Paul,” John says, and his eyes trace over Paul’s face for a reaction. Paul only smiles, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“Yeah, well it sells mate.”

John doesn’t say anything, but his eyes lock with Paul’s the same way they used to. It unnerves Paul slightly, seeing the same John as before in the eyes of a withering man because somehow this isn’t John. Not really. This is a man sculpted by the delicate hand of his woman, and Paul thinks that hurts more than not seeing John in years.

“Why haven’t ya been back in the studio?” Paul asks, and John laughs a little, hiking his legs up to splay them out across the sofa.

“Mother told me to take a break. But anyway, I wanted to be here with Sean.”

Paul had always felt sorry for Julian, for the child always seeked his father but only ever stumbled across a Beatle who had too many plans and too many songs to write to make time for him. Paul had stepped up a few times, playing cowboys and Indians in the back garden as Cynthia and John fight for the fifth time that evening. But now that Julian is getting into his teens, he’s grown apart from his father, opting to stay with Cynthia when given the choice, and Paul doesn’t blame him. But he doesn’t blame John either. Because whilst Paul had always been good with kids, always had one bouncing on his lap at Christmases and taking his time to speak to the younger kids when they wanted to tell him about something, John had never wanted to do anything of the sorts, almost as if he was afraid of children. Which is what lead to Cynthia being nearly the sole parent herself. But John was still a kid, still making his way out of being a gelled up, greasy, horny teenager, and the idea of looking after a kid when he was a kid himself was hard.

So now seeing John confidently wanting to spend time with Sean was good. It’s like a second chance, and Paul hopes that it will help build John’s relationship back up with Julian.

Paul hums, crossing his feet back over each other.

“How is Sean anyway?”

He doesn’t mention Yoko, but John doesn’t seem to care.

“Fine, fine. He’s at that age now where he’s starting to make noises, y’know like he’s talking back at ya? Funny little thing, he is.”

“Aye, they’re cute at that age. My Stella was always talkin’ before she even formed words,” Paul says, and John hums, his head lolling over the back of the sofa.

Paul’s missed this, missed _John_ , and he wonders if they’re fixing what they lost. Paul hopes so, because the tingle in his chest has made itself know for the first time in years, and it makes him feel warm. At home.

He always feels that way with John.

\--

When he gets home, he greets the kids as usual, but there must be something giving it away on his face because Linda frowns before pulling him towards the bedroom. He’s in tears before he’s sat down, and she’s quick to climb onto the bed next to him, pushing his head to her chest with a soft hand on his back.

“But what if it’s not you?”

He knows she understands what he means. They’ve drifted on the subject before, but never for too long because it causes so much guilt in Paul that he always feels like he might suffocate. Linda takes his hand, lacing their fingers together on her knee. He can’t look at her.

“Then I’m okay with that. If I’m not the one then that’s okay because at least I’ll still be able to spend a lifetime with you.”

A finger hooks under his chin, and he looks up at her. She’s smiling, but it does nothing to help his heart from tearing itself apart.

\--

****1980** **

John’s chatting to him down the phone about his new album and how fast it’s hit the charts. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, calling each other, as if to make up for the lost time they spent apart. There are apologies laced in their calls, solving issues long overdue from years before.

It’s comforting somewhat, knowing they’re slowly landing themselves back into the same old routine. Only, Paul realises they’ll never be what they once were.

“Got a photoshoot later as well,” John says, and Paul hums, flicking his eyes out of the window. Its December, and he’s come up to Scotland for the Christmas period as he usually does. There’s snow falling out of the window, and he wonders if it’s snowing where John is.

“On yer own?” Paul asks, earning a small beat of silence.

“No. With Yoko.”

Paul had expected that, and so hums a reply instead of rising to the bait. He can’t deal with fighting anymore.

“You still want to come to London to record in the new year?” Paul asks, and John laughs, though it's tinny through the speaker.

“ ’Course I do, Macca.”

The nickname almost makes Paul sob, the familiar warmth creeping into the edges of his mind.

“Great. I’ll ring ya again before Christmas, yeah?”

They exchange goodbyes, John saying it with some sort of weird finality that makes Paul hiccup with some sort of bad feeling, and then John hangs up.

\--

He’s in the music room when it happens. He’s playing on the piano, a familiar whirl of a tune that stems from his Beatle days, when a sharp pain laces over his wrist. He cringes and stops playing, swallowing thickly as he slowly turns his wrist up to face him.

Linda finds him not too long later, broken down in the corner of the room with his head buried against his knees. She knows what’s happened. She had been cooking in the kitchen with the radio on when the news had blurted it out, and she’s dropped what she was doing to go and find her husband. She sinks next to him, and he grabs her shirt, burying his face into the crook of her neck. She’d never seen him cry this much before, never seen so much raw emotion pooling out of him all at the same time. She shushes gently, but it doesn’t seem to do anything. He clawing at her, knuckles white as he clings on her for dear life. She doesn’t mind, she’s always been his lifeline and this time is no different.

“I know,” she says quietly, breath disrupting the fine hairs on his head, and he shakes his head violently, twisting slightly to make himself smaller. She untangles herself slightly and takes his arm, though he’s somewhat resistant, and she turns his wrist over, hearing him sob quietly into her ear, his body shaking with despondency.

She reads the letters, her eyes turning down at the reality that her husband has lost the most meaningful person in his life. She can’t even fathom how much it must hurt. She reads it again and holds him closer.

_Think about me every now and then, old friend._

**Author's Note:**

> ARGH I'M SORRY  
> I know it's a sad ending but I couldn't help myself. Anyway, if you liked this, please don't be afraid to leave a kudos and a comment.  
> You can also find me on my Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, so don't be afraid to send in an ask!  
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope to see you at my next fic <3 <3


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